


First Dates

by lucky_spike



Category: Homestuck, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Awkwardness, First Date, Multi, Stabdads AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-15
Updated: 2012-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-31 05:25:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucky_spike/pseuds/lucky_spike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the long-awaited sequel to THE TALK, we follow the stabchildren as they embark shakily on the world of romantic entanglements. And their parents, as they deal with it in variously horrible ways.</p>
<p>Valentine's Day stabdads fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Dates

Your name is John Egbert, and if your father knew you were up here, he would kill you. Bad enough, you reason, that he knows you’re on a date with a girl. An actual girl, not Jade or Rose, who he apparently doesn’t consider actual girls on the basis that the three of you – plus Strider – practically grew up together. It’s just as well, really: you think of them more as your sisters, anyway.  
  
Based on his reaction to your announcement of your date, though, you wonder if it would haven been better to tell a little white lie in that respect. Surely he wouldn’t have followed up if you told him you and Rose were going to the movies. And surely – _ surely_ – Rose would have covered for you. It wasn’t that he was angry – not at all – but he seemed worried, agitated that you were doing something so adult. You were too young, he’d insisted several times, and then he’d tried to shove a pastry down your gullet. Too young! he’d kept saying. You hadn’t even tried to lift the fridge up yet, whatever that meant.  
  
It escapes you why he thinks you ought to try to do things like lift up the fridge.  
  
Either way, if he was upset about you being too young to go on a date at all, he’d _ definitely_ be upset about where you had to go to pick up your date. He’d insisted on driving you, so you’d had him drop you off at some random house at the bottom of the hill. No need for the old man to know that your destination was _ not_ the nice two-story colonial with the white siding and purple shutters. No need for him to fret about you climbing the hill to the massive, hulking green monstrosity that squatted over the city like a temporally distorted bullfrog.  
  
You were doing quite enough fretting about that on your own, really. And your anxiety only grew as you slowly walked up the path, hands in your pockets, wad of money clenched in your sweaty fist. Being friends with Vriska Serket, you reasoned, was all well and good; no worries there, really. Going on a date with her, hey, no problem! You’d been friends forever, right? But going to her house – with her horde of crazy gangster uncles and mother who apparently also pulled double duty as the universe – to pick her up was another thing entirely. One of those things, you were realizing, that sounded  _really awesome_ in theory, but when put into practice was actually deeply, pants-wettingly terrifying.  
  
Still, you were an Egbert. You came from a long line of Crockers, you watched every Nic Cage movie ever made, and you weren’t about to wimp out now. Did Cameron Poe turn back when he was most afraid? Would Benjamin Franklin Gates have stopped outside the Capitol, trembling in fear with a couple of stolen twenties in hand, and then turned tail and run?  No . So you too will soldier on, you decide, to either sloppy makeouts or death at the hands of green-clad immortals.  
  
It doesn’t make you feel better to consider that at this juncture, either is equally likely.  
  
You draw even with the front door, and consider the options. Running is still very valid: no one’s even noticed you yet. You could simply flee to a nearby house, and use their phone to call Vriska, and have her meet you halfway down the hill. But something about that strikes you as distinctly un-chivalrous; Balthazar would never approve of such mistreatment of a lady. You could also knock, and hope nobody noticed, or you could ring the bell, and hope that Vriska would beat everyone there.  
  
It’s a conundrum, to be sure, and you figure it requires due consideration. Finally – you’re not sure how long you thought it over – you settle on ringing the bell, and reach your hand out for the elaborately-woven, lime-green bell pull. And then you scream and fall over backwards, because the door swings open before your fingers have even brushed the rope.  
  
“Jesus Christ how long does it _ take_ to ring a doorbell? I kept waiting and waiting ‘cause supposedly it’s only polite to wait to answer until the person actually knocks or whatever but good God I was growing old in there. _ I_ was growing old, kid, and that’s saying something; I’m already three hundred I mean shit, you’d think I wouldn’t have much concept of aging at this point but guess what? When every fucking second clicks by in your head and knowing the time is just as easy as breathing, you  _don’t_ lose track of your age and let me tell you, kid,  _I was waiting to death in there_.” The man in the door – tall, thin, and, true to form, dressed all in green – rocked back on his heels and crossed his arms. “You Vriska’s date?”  
  
“Nghuh?” you manage.  
  
You cringe back as the yellow-hatted mobster steps onto the porch and leans his hands onto his knees, looming over you. “You just gonna lay there and look stupid all night or are you actually gonna say something?”  
  
“Yes, sir,” you squeak. “I-I’m John. Egbert.”  
  
“Well which one is it?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
The man stood up, and you struggle into a sitting position while he stalks around you, waving his arms wildly. “John! Egbert! John or Egbert? John Egbert? Egbert John? J. Egbert? John. E? John. E. Begood? Hah, bet you don’t even get that one! Doesn’t matter though. Who the fuck are you, Johnny B. Good?”  
  
“My name is John Egbert,” you manage, and your voice only comes out sounding half-strangled, an improvement. “I’m here to pick Vriska up for a movie.”  
  
“Yeah, well, here’s the thing Johnny B. Good,” the man went on. And then, in a flash of green and yellow, he’s standing astride you, leaning down so his hooked nose is nearly brushing yours, his arms crossed across his skinny chest. “I’m her Uncle Itchy, an’ if you’re looking to take Vriska out of this house for anything, you’re going to have to go through me.”  
  
“Yes, sir! Of course, sir!”  
  
He scowls at you, and you can tell you’ve already pissed him off, _ man_ this is a lot harder than it is in the movies. “Get up.” You do. “How old are you, kid?”  
  
“The same age as Vriska: fourteen.”  
  
“You ever taken a lady on a date before?” he snaps, the questions coming out like machine gun ammunition.  
  
“Nossir.”  
  
“You ever kissed a lady before?”  
  
“Nossir!” you yelp, because Itchy has grabbed you by the lapels of your sportcoat and hoisted you off the ground by them. You try not to breathe, because the smell of coffee is overwhelming, and you think you might be getting a contact caffeine high. You’re not sure if that’s even possible.  
  
“Good! ‘Cause you’re only gonna do one of those things tonight, kid, and it ain’t gonna be the second one, do I make myself clear? I get any word of your getting your mouth near Vriska’s, and God help me you will regret it. I will  _end you_.”  
  
“Understood, Mr. Itchy!”  
  
“ _Don’t interrupt me_!” He drops you and resumes pacing around you, his long legs eating up the ground so fast that you’re actually going dizzy trying to keep your eyes on him. “I can’t even get a word in edgewise with a damn _ kid_ these days – doesn’t anybody have any respect for their damn elders? And trust me kid, I’m everyone’s fucking elder. ‘Cept Stitch and Scratch and Lord English, I guess. But that’s almost everyone! And it sure as hell includes you! Now, you still want to take Vriska out to a movie, hm?” He stops in front of you and leans in, hands on his hips. “What movie?”  
  
“H-How to Train Your Dragon,” you mumble.  
  
“You sure you’re look for Vriska? Not Terezi?” he asks, eyes narrowed.  
  
“Yes, sir!”  
  
“Hm.” He straightened back up. “Movie theaters can get pretty crowded, you know. Lots of people trying to get the good seats. A gentleman always ensures his lady has the best seat in the house, doesn’t he? Of course he does, don’t answer, you’re slow but you’re not an idiot, I can tell that much. So how are you going to ensure the best seat for Vriska, kid? You’re gonna have to _ race_ to get those seats before all the other guys do.”  
  
“I thought we might get there early and discuss the acting credentials of the main cast and –”  
  
“Shut up. Getting there early is for pussies. I already told you the answer, you have to _ race_.”  
  
“But I –”  
  
“Can you run, kid?”  
  
“I get shin splints.”  
  
You jump back as he flings his arms into the air, looking despairingly at the clouds. “Well then what fucking good _ are_ you?!” He slams his fist into his open palm, making you jump. “You have to _ race_! Shin splints or not! Tell you what, you can beat me in a race to that fountain, and I’ll let you take Vris on this stupid movie date, how’s that sound? One, two, three, go!”  
  
He’s off before your brain even catches up to what he was saying. Seconds later – literally seconds, you think, and that should be impossible – he’s gesturing at you from beside the fountain. “Come on, kid, you didn’t even run! You have to at least _ try_! Christ, and you want me to trust you with Vris! I should –”  
  
“Uncle Itchy, knock it off.” You go weak at the knees, and almost collapse into the grass with sheer relief. You spin around, and Vriska is trotting down the front stairs. “Sorry about him John, he’s overprotective.” She smiles, and you can’t help but smile back, despite the lightning-fast string of insults shooting at you from the fountain. “You ready?”  
  
“Yes,” you practically gasp. And then you do gasp, but through your nose, because Vriska is kissing you on the mouth. “Mmnfff!”  
  
Vriska breaks it off, and she snorts at Itchy’s indignant shrieking. “Sometimes I think it’s best to ignore him.” She grabs your hand, and the two of you start walking down the driveway together, her taking long, confident strides, and you stumbling along in a daze beside her. And then, suddenly, Itchy at an angry quick-step on her opposite side.  
  
“You couldn’t even wait ‘til I wasn’t around to kiss her – like hell I’m letting you take her away from this house!”  
  
“I kissed him, Uncle Itchy.”  
  
“ _ What_?”  
  
“Doze is stuck in the dumbwaiter again; if you hurry, you might be able to get him out before he suffocates again,” she says casually, flipping her bangs out of her eyes.  
  
 _That_ gave him pause. “ _ Again_?” he clarified. Vriska only nods in response, tugging at your hand to speed up. “Fuck.” And then he’s off in a blur of color, back towards the house.  
  
“It’s all about knowing his buttons,” Vriska clarifies, when you’re down the hill and standing at the bus stop. “And making sure you give him a reason to believe you next time.”  
  
You nod, and then think about that. “Did … did Dos or whatever really fall into the dumbwaiter?”  
  
“It’s Doze, and of course he didn’t really fall,” she giggles, swinging your hand, her fingers laced into yours. “I pushed him.”  
  
-()-  
  
Your name is Ace Dick, and you’re not sure if you should explode with pride or not. Or maybe that’s acid indigestion. Probably the second one: you were never very good with metaphorically exploding from feelings. But explosion or not, you _ are_ sure you feel extremely proud of your weird adopted son, the one with the horns that dyes his hair.  
  
“A real date, eh, Trollhearst?”  
  
“ _Stop calling me that, Dad_ ,” Eridan groans. He shoots Wifehearst a despairing look. “Mom, make him use my name.”  
  
She doesn’t look up from her sewing. “Call your son by his name, dear.”  
  
“Whatever. So who’s the lucky lady?” you ask, chomping at the end of your cigar, because you’re pretty sure this is as proud as you’ve ever been of this kid. You thought he was a lost cause in the dating department, to be honest.  
  
“None of your business!” He pats his pockets, tightens his belt, and pulls his stupid striped trousers up half an inch higher. “A girl, that’s all.” And then he gets this look – you’ve seen him get that look before, usually when he’s about to tell you something that’s going to make you furious – and says “Sevveral girls.”  
  
You nearly drop your cigar in shock. “ _Several_?”  
  
“Now Eridan,” Wifehearst chides gently, “you know what I taught you about telling tall tales.”  
  
“It’s not a tall tale!” He draws himself up, and sweeps his cape across his chest. Normally you would punch him in the snout to establish how stupid capes are, but right now you’re too thrilled to bother. “There are several girls, Mom, and I am going to go spend the evvening wwith them.”  
  
“Atta boy, Erihearst!” you bellow, clapping him on the shoulder. His glasses fly off his face and shoot halfway across the room.  
  
“Close enough, Dad,” he sighs. And then he gropes his way across the living room, eventually managing to find his glasses and perch them back on his nose, where they belong. “Thank you for your approvval.” You’re so pleased, you pretend not to notice when he mutters, “Not that I really wwanted it anywway.”  
  
“You still have a curfew,” Wifehearst reminds him.  
  
“Does he really need to –” you start, but she cuts you off with a firm ‘yes’. You grumble, but she overrules you.  
  
“Eleven sharp, no exceptions. If you’re so much as a minute late, I will send your father out after you.”  
  
“Wwhat?”  
  
“ _What_?”  
  
She raised her eyebrows and looked at you both, expression mild. “You both heard me.”  
  
“Wwell that’s hardly fair! Wwhat if I gavve you the phone number that I’m gonna be at?”  
  
“ _Eleven_ , Eridan, and not a minute later.” She lays her needlework aside and stands up to straighten his cloak and glasses, and brush an errant strand of hair off one of his horns. “Am I understood?”  
  
“Yes, Mother.”  
  
“Good.” She smiles, and kisses him once on each cheek. “Have a good evening, Eridan.”  
  
“Thank you, Mother,” he says quickly, before raising his hands and blocking your punch to the snout. “Thank you, Father,” he mumbles, after he’s batted you away. “I wwill return later.”  
  
“Very good,” Wifehearst says, before he strides out of the apartment and closes the door behind him. After his footsteps disappear, out of earshot, she sighs. “It’s about time. I was worried about him you know.”  
  
“He’s makin’ up for it,” you assure her, confident in your eldest. “Sure he was eighteen before he got his first date, but he’s got a buncha girls – did you get that part?” You sling your arm around her shoulders. “He’s makin’ up for it just fine.” Your wife sighs, but you just drop into your recliner, happy. You vaguely wish you didn’t have such a shitty imagination, because you want to imagine Eridan being charming and popular with his girlfriends. Because certainly, you think, as you close your eyes, that was what he would be doing …  
  
Some time and distance away, Eridan sat at the table, his hands laid flat on either side of the book in front of him. “Vvery wwell, Miss Maryam, Miss Lalonde, Miss Megido, Miss Piexes, and Miss Pyrope. I’m sure you all remember the rules of Fiduspawwn, so I hardly think they need be revviewwed.” He shuffled the deck of cards.  
  
“I wwill be your Fiduspawwn master for the evvening; my name is Eridan Ampora.” He grinned. “Let’s begin.”  
  
-()-  
  
Your name is Equius Zahhak, and you are sweating up a storm.  
  
Not that that’s unusual for you – you sweat profusely at the best of times – but the fact that you’re sweating because you’re terrified is sort of new. Really new, actually.  
  
And the fact that you’re terrified of Nepeta’s dad is really, _ really_ new.  
  
“H-how do you find the t-tea?” he asks you, his long legs crossed, sipping at his own teacup. You can hear Nepeta getting ready in her bedroom, and you are praying to any and every god you can recall from your World Religion class to let her come out of that room as soon as possible.  
  
It’s not like you haven’t met Pickle Inspector before. You’ve met him lots of times. But like this, just the two of you sitting across from each other at the breakfast table, with nothing between you and him except what looks to be an absurdly expensive and fragile teacup? Never. And as such, you’ve never really got a feel for his bone-chilling calm, and that _ ogle_. That horrible ogle, that makes you feel like your very thoughts are written down on a scrap of paper that’s pasted to the inside of your skull, and he’s just taking his time reading them.  
  
“Equius?” he smiles a little, slightly encouraging, and you start. “Y-you’ve hardly t-touched your tea; it is not to your l-liking?”  
  
“Oh. Oh, no, sir it isn’t that. I’m just not exceptionally thirsty,” you say quickly, despite the fact you’re sweating bullets. _ Please_, you pray in the privacy of your own brain,  _please, GPI, let her come out soon_.  
  
“Do you k-know what ‘GPI’ stands for?” Pickle Inspector asks mildly, sipping at his tea. You startle, and wonder for a minute if your prayer was spoken aloud. “S-such a common phrase, really, and y-yet no one knows what it r-really _ means_.”  
  
“It’s the overarching concept of a mostly-passive deity, right?” you hazard.  
  
“Y-yes, but do you know what it _ stands_ f-for? D-do have some t-tea, Equius.”  
  
“No, sir,” you say quietly, carefully lifting the teacup up and barely brushing it against your lips, your fingers clutched delicately around the fine china handle.  
  
“Hm. How peculiar.” He swirls his tea in his cup, and smiles that brittle smile at you, still ogling. “It s-stands, Equius, for G-Godhead Pickle Inspector.”  
  
You’re not quite sure how to respond to that. “Funny coincidence,” you settle on.  
  
“N-not a coincidence,” he corrects, setting his teacup down, while yours starts to rattle in your hand. You tighten your grip, imperceptibly, on the handle, still achingly careful of the force you’re exerting on the china. “I _ am_ G-GPI, Equius. Or, at least, some i-incarnation of me is.” He smiles, wistfully, and his eyes never leave your face. “A-and once, when I was d-defeating a d-demon, another incarnation of me d-divivded, and became all the cells in the universe. Isn’t that f-fascinating?”  
  
You pull a towel out of your cargo shorts and mop at your forehead. “Yes, sir.”  
  
“I’m g-glad you think so,” he said, rewarding you. “B-because it really  is . I am e-every cell, every molecule in the universe, Equius. It’s v-very distracting.” He sighed. “All the m-molecules in this table. Your t-teacup. _ You_.” His eyes narrowed a little, although that distant little smile never left his lips.  
  
“I-if I c-concentrate, I can see w-what any molecule sees at that given m-moment, Equius. I c-can see _ everything_. And I can c-control them, too.”  
  
You lean back into your chair, and he leans forward, spidery hands folded on the table, almost predatory. “I c-can  _watch you_ , Equius. And I w-will, believe me.” He grinned. “And if y-you so much as _ look askance_ at m-my daughter, I will kill you.”  
  
You don’t scream as your teacup explodes in your face, showering you with cold tea. You inwardly curse yourself for being so careless to break the teacup, to drench yourself and Nepeta’s father – and possibly God, you’re not sure now. You apologize for your clumsiness, and mop yourself and the table up with your towel. And then you glance back to Nepeta’s father, prepared to offer him the towel.  
  
He doesn’t need the towel. He’s perfectly dry.  
  
“B-but I – the cup,” you start. He just picks his own cup up and sips at the liquid inside, delicately.  
  
“Check ag-again,” he says, as you stammer.  
  
You look down to your hand, and to the perfectly-preserved teacup handle, still delicately and carefully clutched between your fingers. Not a single crack in it.  
  
“W-well,” Nepeta’s father says, setting his now-empty cup down, and rising. “How v-very nice speaking w-with you, Equius. I will f-fetch Nepeta d-directly. I d-do hope you have a pleasant evening.”  
  
“And remember,” he adds, one hand on the doorframe into the little kitchen, his disconcerting ogle fixed firmly on your drenched shirt, “I will b-be monitoring.”  
  
-()-  
  
Your name is Diamonds Droog, and you’re cleaning your gun.  
  
Well, one of your guns. You have more than a few. You quite like this one: it’s big, and sleek, and black, and it hardly makes a sound, considering the caliber and the fact that it’s fully automatic. You have quieter guns, of course, and silencers to make them quieter still, but something about this one …  
  
It looks intimidating, and you like that about this gun.  
  
But it’s not working, and that sort of worries you.  
  
“You can put the gun away, Uncle Droog,” your sort-of-nephew says, from behind his handheld game. “I know you’re not gonna thoot me.” He looks up at you through those weird blue-and-red specs. “Really.”  
  
He’s right: you weren’t _ going_ to shoot him. “I could reconsider,” you point out.  
  
“Dad’ll never forgive you if you thoot me.” He raises one eyebrow. “Neither will Aradia.”  
  
You scowl. “I can’t say I’m concerned about the long-term ramifications just at this moment.”  
  
“Of courthe you are.” He turns back to his game. “You alwayth are. It’th what you _ do_.”  
  
That grates you. He’s a kid – he’s only 16 – and he’s telling you what you always do. How could he know that? You’re not _ predictable_. You’ve made a life of being unpredictable. But then again, you’re the brains of the Midnight Crew. Thinking ahead is _ also_ what you do.  
  
“Anyway, even if you don’t put the gun away,” he goes on, “it’th not like it’th gonna do anything.” He glances back up at you. “Unleth you follow me around the entire time, you’re not gonna know anything exthept that I pick her up, and bring her home on time.”  
  
You really, _ really_ hate that he has a point. So you put the gun down, and light a cigarette.  
  
“Will it make you feel better to lay down ground ruleth?” he suggests, helpfully.  
  
“ _Yes_ ,” you snarl, and you make sure he sees your teeth, even though he’s probably seen them before. He certainly doesn’t look intimidated. You don’t like it.”  
  
He smiles, encouraging, and closes the game. “Go ahead, Uncle Droog. I’m all earsth.”  
  
“Fine. _ First_ of all, you are not to touch any part of her except for her hands,” you snap, smoke pouring out of your mouth and nose. “And even then, only those under _ extreme_ duress.”  
  
“Tho you mean only if thee grabth my handth firtht?”  
  
“She’d never do that,” you snarl automatically. “ _Secondly_ , I want her back here no later than nine pm.”  
  
“That’th thort of earl -”  
  
“Eighty-thirty.”  
  
“ _Uncle Droog_.”  
  
“I’ll make it earlier,” you threaten, as though you don’t have half a mind to do so anyway. You glance at your watch. It’s already six thirty: they’ll hardly have time to do anything. Good. “Third, I want you to tell me - as closely to the minute as possible - exactly where you plan to be.”  
  
Sollux stares at you for a long time, and you stare back. Staring, you can do. It’s going to be watching - _ watching_ \- as your little girl walks out the front door with this boy that’s going to be difficult.  
  
“You’re theriouth.”  
  
“Of course I’m serious.” You’re sort of indignant that he asked: as though you’ve ever not been serious. “I may be monitoring the progress of your little … _ date_.”  
  
Sollux rests his face in his hands. “Oh my God, Uncle Droog. Have you ever heard of Xanax?”  
  
You have. “That’s not funny.” You’re itching to pull your deck now. You’re not sure if it would help matters, but there’s a large part of you that’s extremely tempted to find out if a sharp whap to the back of the head with your cuestick will straighten Sollux out. Not that you expected much more from Deuce’s boy, but this sort of disrespect is over the top.  
  
“To the minute?” He sits back, closes his eyes, and thinks. “We will leave thith houthe at thix fifty-two. By theven fifteen, we should arrive at the movie theater. We will buy ticketh to a film, which should put uth in our theath by theven thirty. We will then _ watch_ thaid film, which hath a run time of one hour and twenty minuteth. At the film’th doubtlethly exthiting concluthion, we will hold handth tenderly for approximately ten thecondth.”  
  
“Five seconds.”  
  
“ _Oh my God_.” He closes his eyes and steels himself. “After that, I wath hoping we’d have enough time to go get an ithe cream, but thinthe we have to be back here by eight-thirty, I guethh it’ll have to wait for another time.”  
  
You drum your fingers on the arms on the chair with your free hand, while smoke rises from the end of your cigarette. “Sounds like it,” you conclude. “What film are you referring to?”  
  
Sollux doesn’t groan, but you hear him choke it off in his throat. “Thomething dethent.” You just watch him, expectant and predatory, until he mumbles, “Paul.”  
  
“ _Absolutely __not_ ,” you snap, immediately. “Pick a film that’s rated PG or less.”  
  
“PG or _ less_? Uncle Droog, the only thing that’th out that fitth that criteria right now ith the Lion King in 3-D.”  
  
“I suppose you’ll be seeing the Lion King, then.”  
  
“ _We’re sixteen_.”  
  
“I’m sure you will not be the youngest people there.” You open the chamber to the gun and double-check that it isn’t loaded. Then you load it.  
  
“That’th not … you know, never mind.” He checks his watch, and looks hopefully to the stairs. “Tho ith Aradia going to be ready or …?” You don’t answer, and he cocks his head. “What time did thee thay thee wath going to be ready?”  
  
You say, severely, “As her date, I would expect you to know.”  
  
“I know I thaid thix fifteen.” He’s watching you, because he’s suspicious now. “What time did thee tell you?”  
  
“Nothing specific,” you lie, returning your attention to the firearm that’s laid open across your lap. “I’d imagine she’ll come down when she’s ready.”  
  
“Yeah,” Sollux says, despite not looking any more confident in your answer. “I guethh thee will.”  
  
Upstairs, Aradia pulled a bobby pin from her hair, and carefully inserted it into the lock. It was a quick moment’s work, usually, but this time, she frowned. And then she jiggled the pin experimentally, one more time. Frowning, she removed the pin, and bent to delicately sniff the lock.  
  
Superglue. He’d superglued her in.  
  
Well, nothing a little acetone couldn’t fix. Except, she realized, when she went to her makeup drawer, her acetone was gone. As were all her products that might be somewhat based in acetone. As was, she determined, when she checked under her mattress, her super-Gorilla-Glue-solvent.  
  
Locked in her room, Aradia Megido sighed, and looked at herself in the mirror. She’d been excited to go out with Sollux in this dress. It was a _ nice_ dress. She would have doubted her father even knew she had it, except that she also doubted there was a single piece of fabric in the house he wasn’t aware of. But push had come to shove, unfortunately, so off came the dress, and on went a far more practical pair of tights, and tunic shirt.  
  
Tying the sheets together was short work, as was sending the message to Sollux to meet her outside in five minutes.  
  
AA: im climbing 0ut the wind0w. ill meet y0u 0n the c0rner.  
TA: great. ju2t a que2tiion of how two diitch your dad, now …  
AA: is he h0lding a gun?  
TA: ye2  
AA: hm  
AA: tell him  
AA: tell him y0ure g0ing t0 thr0w up  
TA: aa …  
AA: 0n the rug. dry heave a little.  
TA: AA ….......................  
AA: trust me 0n this 0ne  
  
In the sitting room, Sollux could only stare blankly at the game screen, and the message flashing on it. Then, slowly, he looked up to Diamonds Droog. And blinked. “I’m going to be thick,” he announced. “Directly right here. Now. Hurk.”  
  
When he met Aradia on the corner five minutes later, he was wiping his mouth on his sleeve. She grimaced. “You didn’t _ actually_ vomit, did you?” He spat on the sidewalk, a spit-diluted mouthful of mustard yellow blood. “Oh. Uh … why are you bleeding?”  
  
“Hit my mouth on the hand rail when your dad threw me out the front door.”  
  
“Ah.” She took both of his hands in hers, and smiled. “So no kissing tonight, I guess.”  
  
“Wouldn’t advithe it.” He smirked. “Probably for the betht, thinthe I’m pretty thure your dad’th going to come find uth ath thoon ath he realitheth you’re gone.”  
  
“At the movies?” She sighed, and ran one finger over his bottom lip, swiping away a droplet of blood. “Hm. Movies don’t sound like a very good idea right now; not with your mouth all cut up like it is.” She leaned in, and kissed him on the nose. “Personally, I think ice cream sounds like a much better choice.”  
  
He couldn’t help but smile a little, toothily. “He’th gonna kill me.”  
  
“Probably not,” she said, taking him by the hand and striding off, toward the nearest diner. “ _Probably_.”  
  
-()-  
  
Your name is Tavros Nitram, and if you were given your choice right now, you wouldn’t be wearing a tux.  
  
It is the first of many, many things you wouldn’t be doing.  
  
You would also not be sitting across a  very nice white-cloth covered table from Gamzee Makara, who is _ not_ wearing a tux, and looks far more comfortable for it. Nor would you be anywhere within visual range of your father.  
  
Regrettably, all of those things are things that are, rather than not happening, _ happening_. You _ are_ wearing a tux, and you are sitting across the table of a rather nice restaurant from your undisputed best friend, and your father is sitting two tables away, occasionally holding up flashcards denoting what you should do next.  
  
“Uh, listen, Gamz, um, I’m sorry, I -”  
  
“It’s cool, bro.” Gamzee beamed at you. “My mom was so stoked when I told her I was motherfuckin’ going on a date and shit. Who cares if it’s not even a motherfucking real date.”  
  
“Uh, it’s not a date, at all,” you mumble, shooting your father a glare. He holds up a card that says ‘ask about his career’. “I just wanted some, um, some time out of the, uh, the house, you know?”  
  
“Fuck, bro, it’s all good.” Gamzee took a sip of water and beamed. “I see what fuckin’ dog you’re walkin’, you know what I mean?”  
  
“Not, uh, not to say I don’t, um, like you,” you go on, your face flushing. Your dad doesn’t miss that: he smiles broadly and makes encouraging motions. “Uh, you know, um. As, uh, a friend.”  
  
Gamzee nods serenly. “Righteous. Best friends, right, bro?”  
  
“Yes. Best friends. Um.” You look at Gamzee and his distant, half-lidded gaze. Something twinges in your gut, your think, or maybe your chest, since you cannot, technically, feel your gut. “Gamz, uh, I mean I know, uh, I know I said this wasn’t a date -”  
  
“Right,” Gamzee agrees, solemnly. “Just wanted some time, just the motherfuckin’ two of us. I’m down, bro.”  
  
“Well, uh, when you put it like that it um, it sort of _ sounds_ like a date.”  
  
“True.” The other troll looked thoughtful, and pensively impaled a dinner roll on one of his horns. “Hey,” he giggled, “check that shit out.”  
  
You crack a grin. “Very funny.”  
  
“I should just fuckin’ leave it there. Like it’s no thing.”  
  
You’re snickering. “Do it.” Across the restaurant, your dad is scowling. “Just, leave it there.”  
  
“Motherfucking  _on it_ , bro.” He shoots you a double thumbs up, and you return the gesture. The two of you snicker about it for a while, secretly (you think) glancing around at the restaurant’s other patrons to see if they’ve noticed. As far as you can tell, your dad is the only one, and when you glance over to him he puts his face in his hands, shoulders slumped in defeat.  
  
“Yo, Tav. Check it.” Gamzee beams at you. “Throw a brother a motherfuckin’ beat, would you?” You oblige, and Gamzee listens to it for a minute, before he starts nodding, then bobbing to it. And then he begins:  
  
“This brother right here, he’s my number one, he’s got my back in a corner, and he’ll never run; I known this motherfucker damn near all my life, and you know fuckin’ straight I’d have his back in a strife. So when my brother asked me out on what’s not a date, fuck I didn’t even care an’ I couldn’t even wait: I sat by the door for the whole afternoon, looked to the motherfuckin’ clock and kept hopin’ it was soon. When this brother fin’ly knocked, I peaced straight out of the house, knew it was motherfuckin’ bro time with my very best pal. He was wearing a tux, but I ain’t underdressed, ‘cause my best bro told me that my threads are the best. An’ we had a whole dinner, an’ the whole time we talked, but every time it gets familiar my best bro right here balks -” you splutter, and the beat drops, but Gamzee keeps going. “Now I try to make him laugh, and I got a sick rhyme, an’ I hope I can tell him all my feelings in time. See I know this ain’t a date, an’ I know that we’re just friends, but brother lemme say I hope that ain’t just where it ends. ‘Cause Tav you’re my best bro, an’ we always have fun, an’ I just want you to know, Tav, you’re my fucking number one.”  
  
He stops then, and smiles at you, that half-lidded, dopey smile you know so well. Except it’s different, now, because you’re heart’s racing and your ears are ringing and there’s unfamiliar feelings twisting around inside you. Not unpleasant, and not unwelcome, but definitely unfamiliar, especially where Gamzee Makara is concerned.  
  
“Uh, Gamzee?”  
  
“Only stating the motherfucking truth, brother.” His smile falters. “I hope it’s cool …”  
  
You think about it, your eyes darting up and down his figure, from his hands, folded on the table, to the dinner roll, speared on his horn. You evaluate your feelings. It’s not a date, you remind yourself. Not a date. Definitely not a date. Gamzee’s your friend, your  _really good_ friend, and he’s right, you’ve known each other your whole lives and you’re practically inseparable, and you know more about him than any other person, and the thought of ever not having Gamzee in your life is something that’s made your palms sweat every time it’s come up and …  
  
“Uh,” you profess. And then you decide. “It’s extremely, cool. Extremely.”  
  
Gamzee beams at you, and you beam back. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see your dad’s dark face split into a needle-toothed grin. “Sweet,” says Gamzee.  
  
“Uh,” you say.  
  
“NOW KISS,” your dad yells.  
  
-()-  
  
Your name is Kanaya Maryam, and you are regretting this decision. You are pretty sure your girlfriend is, too.  
  
It’s not your first date, not by a long shot, but it’s the first time your parents have met. You’re not sure if would have been easier if it had gone poorly, but at the moment, you’re willing to consider the possibility. You’re willing to consider _ anything_, as long as it’s not the two of them getting along like a house on fire.  
  
“How concerned should we be?” you mutter to Rose, out of the corner of your mouth. “On a scale of one to ten?”  
  
“Whichever number most accurately encompasses gross fondling and a 100% chance of sloppy make-outs.” She glances to you. “Isn’t your father involved in a semi-torrid relationship with a mobster?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Ah. Well, add 100% chance of vindictive stabs to that itinerary and I think we might just about be able to calculate exactly how dire this situation is.”  
  
On the couch, oblivious to you and Rose, Rose’s mother is literally crawling on top of your father. Not that he looks upset about it. Quiet the opposite, really.  
  
“You know,” she says, coyly unfastening the top button of her lab coat, “I think I’ve got a few problems in my lab that could use some … sleuthing.”  
  
“The second bottle of wine was a terrible idea,” Rose groans. “She was already four drinks in when we  _got here_.”  
  
“And Father had lunch with Mr. Slick, which typically involves more liquids than solids,” you add, morose, as you watch your father fumble a business card - crinkled, dog-eared and battered - from between the couch cushions.  
  
“Well, ma’am,” he manages, dropping the card on his own face. “If things in your lab are getting too hot to handle and you need a hot stud to sleuth your problems -”  
  
“I need a hot stud to sleuth _ something_, that’s for sure,” she slurs, laying down on top of him, her hands twisted into his shirt, their faces half an inch apart. “ _Wonk_.”  
  
“ _Father_ ,” you warn.  
  
Your father looks to you, his card sliding into his eye. “ _Ow_. Right!” He prods Ms Lalonde in the forehead with an index finger. “Madam, you are  soused an’ I am in a co-committed ... something … casual fucking spree … with a very dangerous man.”  
  
“Sounds  sexy. ”  
  
“ _Mom_!”  
  
“It is.”  
  
“ _Father_!”  
  
“He’d prob’y like it if I _ joined_?” Rose’s mother suggests, waggling her eyebrows.   
  
“N - yes. Yes, probably.” Your father grins. “ _Yes_.”  
  
“No!” Rose and you yell, in tandem.  
  
They look at both of you, expressions uniformly shocked, as though they’d forgotten you were there. They probably had, to be honest. Ms Lalonde turns back to your father with slow, drunken care. “ _We’re traumatizing them_ ,” she hisses. “ _Their brains are still developing_. ”  
  
“Mother, we can both hear you.”  
  
“Can’t interrupt brain development,” your father agrees, solemn. “S’very important.” They stare at each other for a minute, and for a moment you dare hope that they’re drunk enough that they’ve forgotten what they’re both doing there in the first place. Then your father smiles, drunk and serene. “ _Wonk_.”  
  
Rose’s mother shrieks with laughter, and the two of them spill off the couch and onto the floor. You and Rose exchange exasperated looks. “I am at a loss as to what course of action we should take,” you admit.  
  
“Short of the sweet embrace of unconsciousness, I think there’s very little we _ can_ do.” Rose sat back, arms and legs crossed. “And that’s probably another two bottles of wine off for my mom.”  
  
“We could provide that,” you suggest, as your parents start muttering to one another again, interspersing whatever alcohol-driven conversation they’re managing with giggling.  
  
“And make them _ worse_?” Rose frowned. “Perhaps there’s a way to get them apart. If we can separate them, I can get my mother into the car and drive us home.” She doesn’t look particularly happy. “Why the onus of responsibility lies on my delicate 16 year-old shoulders, I’ll never know, but -”  
  
“Both of you move!” Ms Lalonde announces, waving a finger in more-or-less your direction.  
  
Rose snaps, “Why?” but you’re watching your father stagger to his feet, and pull the blanket off the back of the couch.  
  
“Father, no,” you warn.  
  
“Move or you’re coming in with us,” Ms Lalonde threatens.  
  
“ _Father_.”  
  
“M’with Roxy on this one, Kan,” he says, almost apologetically. “Y’ve got ‘til I remember all the numbers that come before three.”  
  
You sigh, and grab Rose’s shoulder. “Come on.”  
  
“What are they _ doing_?” she asks, jumping out of the way quickly as your father casts the blanket over the top of the kitchen table. It’s so large that it drapes all the way to the floor, all the way around.  
  
“Considering the other things that they could be doing,” you say, straightening the blanket a little so it falls more evenly, “something relatively mild.” Rose looks doubtful as the two of them dive under the table, your father managing to snatch the rest of the wine before he disappears. “Trust me.”  
  
Rose cocks her head and stares at the toes of her mother’s boots, just barely poking out from beneath the blanket. They’re giggling again. “Okay. But I’m still not clear on what’s going on under there.”  
  
“They’re going to the imaginary world,” you sigh, pulling a bowl out of the cabinet and filling it with candy corn. You slide it under the blanket. “It is, I would hazard, the best of the probable outcomes. They will, I predict, have a wonderful evening fighting various monsters and mechas, and will return to the present in the morning.” You look thoughtful. “We should probably have coffee ready for them.”  
  
Rose’s mouth is half-open, her expression uncomprehending. She looks from you, to the two pairs of legs sticking out from under the table, and back to you. Finally, she manages, “So does your father … do this often?”  
  
“At least once a week.” You head toward your bedroom. “Want to watch a movie?”  
  
“But they’re …”  
  
“Fine. They are more than fine.” You open the door. “I have a daybed and a VCR, Rose Lalonde, and I expect that we will make good use of both of those things tonight.”  
  
She gapes at you for a long minute, before closing her mouth, throwing her arms up in a gesture of defeat, and following you into your bedroom.  
  
Ultimately, you do make good use of the daybed and the VCR. Admittedly, though, one gets _ slightly_ more use, when the power goes out around midnight. Neither of you complain.  
  
-()-  
  
Karkat Vantas was fourteen before he finally mustered up the courage to sneak out of his dad’s house on an actual date with Terezi Pyrope. He assured himself that it was because his dad would murder him if he ever found out he was out with “that bluh bluh huge bitch’s” adopted daughter. It was _ certainly_ not because the prospect of going out with Terezi Pyrope was, in and of itself, deeply unnerving for him.  
  
He stole some money from his dad and met Terezi at the bus stop on the corner of his street. Together, they rode the bus to a dingy little diner that Karkat knew well enough. They slid into a booth, ordered some fried food as an appetizer, and two dinners. Dessert looked like a definite possibility.  
  
You know all this because you followed them. Well, you followed your daughter, anyway. It wasn’t like Terezi to sneak out, and you had to admit: your curiosity was piqued. So you’d trailed the bus to one street over from Slick’s, and peeled off toward the man’s house. Karkat had already gone to wait for the bus by the time you got there, making everything much easier.  
  
“Hello, Slick,” you said, by way of announcement, when you phased into existence next to him. He jumped about four feet off the couch, landing with a knife in his hand.  
  
“I told you not to do your fucking stupid universe phasey trick in my damn house!”  
  
“I know you did,” you agreed. “Karkat and Terezi are on a date.”  
  
“And it’s just fucking, rude, what’s m - what?” He skidded to a verbal halt, mouth hanging open. “A _ what_?”  
  
“We’ll still be able to follow the bus if we leave now.”  
  
In the end, you had to grab him by the stump and drag him with you, not because he didn’t want to go, but because he didn’t want to go with _ you_, in _ your_ car. He kept going on about only having three limbs left. You supposed it was a valid concern, but more pressing, you reasoned, was that your children were on a bus straight for clumsy public displays of affection.  
  
The two of you ducked into the back of the diner - Slick was apparently a frequent customer - and managed to slide into a booth, unnoticed. You immediately go about setting up menus along the edge of the table, and the two of you hunch down behind them.  
  
“What are they doing?” you hiss.  
  
Slick just snarls at you. “I _ might_ be able to fucking tell you, if you hadn’t made me sit on this side of the damn booth!” He cranes his head around in a desperate attempt to get the kids into his limited visual field. “I can’t see ‘em.”  
  
You risk popping your head over the ridge of menus, and duck back down quickly. “They’re holding hands.”  
  
“Shit, this is more serious than I thought.” He sucks pensively at his straw. “Are they on the same side of the booth?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“ _Fuck_.” He makes to slam his fist on the table, but remarkably, he manages to catch himself before he causes a scene. “Disgusting.”  
  
You agree. “If they want to sit next to one another, why don’t they sit at the bar?” You peek back over at them. “Terezi’s got her hand on Karkat’s thigh.”  
  
“ _Shit_.” He’s snarling. “Christ, they’re too young to be _ dating_. Am I right? Of course I’m right. Fourteen … I wasn’t even dating in fucking virtual reality world then.” He looks to you, a little inquisitive.  
  
“I was betrothed,” you say, before he can actually ask.  
  
“‘Course you were. Fucking bitch.” He strains to see the pair again. “Fucking eye-stealing bitch,” he mumbles, ducking back down behind the menus.  
  
You smirk, and before he can react your hands are on his face, forcing his bad eye open. “I hardly think I _ stole_ it,” you say, letting his eyelid fall closed again on the white, misshapen iris. “It’s right there in the socket.”  
  
He snaps his teeth at you. “You know what I meant. What’re they doing now?”  
  
“Just talking.” You risk another look over the menus to confirm this. “Still. They’re rather closer now, though, I think.” You frown. “Yes, definitely closer. A lot closer. A - oh.”  
  
“What the fuck does ‘oh’ mean?”  
  
“They’re a _ lot_ closer now -” With a rattle of cutlery, Slick ducks underneath the table, and reappears next to you in the booth. He has to almost stand to see over the menus, but once he catches a glimpse of what they’re up to he hunches quickly back down, next to you.  
  
“ _Their noses are touching_ ,” he hisses, hand clenched on his hat. “Actually touching!”  
  
You nod. “Yes.”  
  
“They’re gonna kiss!”  
  
“Yes, I think so.” The two of you exchange a look. “Should we … do something?”  
  
“Fucked if I know.” He frowns. “I reckon … I reckon kissin’s probably okay, right? Just a kiss ain’t gonna hurt. It’s if they start … you know …” You do know, but you want to twist it out of him. You carefully arrange your expression to be politely blank, and he scowls at you. “ _You know_.” He raises his arm to make a gesture, and his stump moves against your shoulder. “Ah, shit. _ I could do the gesture for fucking_,” he snarls, “if I still had two goddamn hands.”  
  
“Slick!” you scold him. “No need to be so uncouth.”  
  
“Well how the hell else am I supposed to put it?!”  
  
You ignore him. “I don’t think we should let it get anywhere near that point, anyway. They’re just children, after all. An innocent kiss is one thing, but anything more than that …” You trail off, because you can see the cresting tufts of their hair from your shielded position, and they have just moved significantly closer.  
  
“ _Slick_ ,” you hiss, and you slap him on the arm, hard. “They’re kissing.”  
  
“No shit?” He rears up, over the menus. “Shit, woman, that’s hardly a … _ oh_.” His eye goes wide. “Yeah, they’re kissing. _ Damn_.”  
  
You join him, the two of you looking over the menus at them like a pair of black-clad prairie dogs. You watch as your sweet little girl - the  good one, even - leans in and kisses Slick’s kid.  _Hard_. And there’s teeth going, but it’s gentle, not like you and Slick.  
  
“So when do we stop them?” Slick whispers into your ear. You don’t answer. One of the menus falls over, but neither of you can be bothered to do anything about it.  
  
You rest your chin in your hand, and try desperately not to look like you’re blinking back tears. “They grow up so _ fast_,” you mumble. “I hardly seems as though …”  
  
“Yeah.” Slick sits down again, happy to take advantage of the breach in your menu-constructed defenses, and props his chin on your shoulder. “Look at ‘em. I mean they’re fucking gross little worm things but then one day you’re sitting in a diner watchin’ ‘em have a godawful first kiss.”  
  
The haze of the moment fades when he says that, and you look a bit closer. “It is a rubbish kiss, isn’t it?” He leans a little more heavily on you.  
  
“Karkat’s not even touchin’ her.” You can feel him scowl. “ _C’_ _mon_ , kid: do somethin’ with your hands! Shit, I shoulda taught him something about this, shouldn’t I?”  
  
“What are they doing with their _ tongues_? Terezi, oh …” You hide your frown behind your hand. “Oh no, Terezi don’t … Don’t lick his nose.”  
  
You watch as they fumble their way through second base, both of you too stunned and, possibly, disappointed, to say anything. Terezi is aggressively preparing to get to third base when Slick gets fed up.  
  
“This is a fuckin’ _ embarrassment_, is what this is.”  
  
“It’s _ dreadful_.”  
  
Slick knocks the rest of the menus down then, and for a minute you’re like a deer in the headlights. Terezi and Karkat break apart and turn to look, confusion apparent on their faces for that brief, brief millisecond before their eyes go wide and they freeze, terrified.  
  
“Mom?”  
  
“ _Dad_?”  
  
“That,” Slick snaps, over the sudden silence in the diner, “was the worst fucking kiss I have ever seen in my goddamn _ life_. Dammit, Karkat, haven’t you learned _ anything_?”  
  
“N - not from … Not about -” the boy tries, but Slick is on a mission.  
  
“Here, watch.” Before you know it, Spades Slick has snaked around you like the little goddamn bastard he is, and he’s kissing you on the mouth. Your eyes are still open. “See?” He breaks off. “You fucking  _touch her_ , for chrissakes. Don’t just keep your hands on the fucking bench.”  
  
“ _Slick_.” You put your hand in the middle of his chest, and push him back. “ _Really_?”  
  
“They _ clearly_ need a fucking lesson.”  
  
“Slick, we’re in a _ diner_,” you hiss. “There are people watching.”  
  
“I don’t give a shit.” He leans in and kisses you again. At least this time you’re more prepared for it: you close your eyes, and you don’t stiffen up.  
  
You’re a little on guard still, though: you keep waiting for the teeth to come out. They don’t though. And then it occurs to you that this is  really a lesson for Karkat, apparently, because Spades Slick is kissing you. _ Romantically_. Not biting, not trying to stab you between the ribs when you let your guard down, just kissing you. And maybe squeezing your boob a little.  
  
When you finally break apart, you can’t help but look at him with half-lidded eyes. “Slick?” you murmur.  
  
He spins away from you, swiping the back of his sleeve across his mouth. “See? An’ she’s fuckin’ satisfied as hell.  _That’s_ how you kiss a dame, kid.”  
  
Karkat and Terezi are just staring, mute and pale. Slowly, Terezi gags.  
  
“So,” Slick concludes, suddenly uncomfortable as he realizes half the diner is staring at him. It only lasts a second though: soon enough he’s snarling at anyone foolish enough to not look away. “The fuck are you gapin’ at?”  
  
As everyone returns their attentions to their orders, and your kids frantically gesture at the waitress to bring their check, you sling your arm around Slick’s shoulders and pull him close, trying not to smile too broadly when you hear something in his back crackle.  
  
“So what was that kiss about, hm?”  
  
“Get the hell off me.” He twists, but with one arm he can only push you away so much. “It was fucking educational.”  
  
“Hm. I’m too sure.” You push him off you, onto his feet. He straightens his jacket, while you get up and smooth your skirt out. “I suppose our work here is done.”  
  
He jerks a thumb toward Karkat and Terezi. “Kids’re still here.”  
  
“You think they’re likely to do anything else tonight?” You watch as he looks to the two of them, sitting quietly apart, occasionally shooting you and Slick terrified glances out of wide eyes.  
  
“Nah.” The two of you stroll out the front door this time, and loop around to the back of the place in silence. You’re just by your car when you grab him, and force him backwards, up onto your car’s hood.  
  
“You low-life, exhibitionist, _ disgusting_ little _ scumbag_,” you snarl, pinning his wrist to the cool, green metal. “In front of all those people! In front of our _ kids_! Of all the filthy, shameless things you’ve done in your life, that one -”  
  
His teeth sink into your bottom lip and he holds on, the little jackass. You go cross-eyed for a second trying to look at him, and the fact that he’s grinning does nothing for your mood. “Slick.” You grind his wrist harder into your car. He responds by biting harder. “ _Slick_.”  
  
You retaliate then, darting forward and scraping his mouth with your own dagger teeth. You wrap your free hand around his neck and force him backwards, laying down on your car underneath you. “You’re positively infuriating,” you pant, biting at him, and dodging his teeth as he tries to give as good as he’s getting.  
  
“It’s by design, you stupid bitch.”  
  
“I doubt it.” Your nose brushes his mouth, smearing the tip with blood, and he snaps his teeth right next to your cheek. You can feel the sharp points brush your skin, but there’s no prick to signal that he’s bitten you. “I’m not stupid.” You nip at his lips again, and then slide down to the top button on his shirt, snapping it off in your mouth. “And I hate that you always assume I am.”  
  
“Heh.” His back arches weakly, and you slide your hand from his neck to his bad shoulder. You barely have to press to immobilize him; it’s fascinating, and it’s thrilling. “S’at all you hate about me?” He looks down at you, and you take a second to meet his eye, crouched as your are over him. “‘Cause I gotta, say, I hate a lot more about you.” You nuzzle him under his ear, and scrape a scar with your teeth, cracking it open again. “Pretty much everything.” You bite the scar then, and twist his wrist so you can feel things pop. “ _Fuck_ , I hate you, Snowman.”  
  
He’s writhing under you. Tiny and weak in comparison to you, a creature fueled by base desires and nothing else. And yet he has the audacity to take run after run at you, try to end you, even at the price of his sight, his arm, the universe. He’s reckless, and he’s powerless against his unending hatred for you. You think about all that, and you grin, moving just so your teeth brush his ear.  
  
“I hate you too, Slick,” you murmur, almost tenderly, before your teeth snap shut, and you take a chunk out of his ear.


End file.
